Page 5

Chapter five

I t had taken Bob most of the morning and even a few hours in the afternoon to go over all the reports on his desk. He moved the last file to his outbox and leaned back in his chair. Glancing at the stack to his left, he just exhaled. He still needed to review the case files for court the following day. It blew Bob’s mind how much paperwork it took to run a city. The sad part, he didn’t have to worry about utilities, road constructions, and all the other random stuff the local cities handled.

Yet, the stacks of reports never ended. He was sure he could wallpaper his office and even Constantine’s study with the amount of paper they accumulated per week. Bartholomew had suggested automating some of their files. The crew had protested, but Bob was seriously rethinking the idea. It would be more cost effective and even better for the environment if they invested in intense computer classes instead of the reams of paper they went through.

He needed to figure out the best way to approach the situation. Eighty percent of their staff were made of transient individuals. Many were down on their luck, people that ended up in Texarkana on their way to other locations. Texarkana still had transients who refused to work for Reapers or even take shelter at the Station. They couldn’t force anyone to join. Constantine mandated hot meals were provided to all that wanted food twice a day.

It took months before many of the remaining local transients trusted them enough to take the meals. They had no issues going to the local churches, but not Death’s Crew, as they were called. Bob understood that very well. For years, he had been one of those transient folks. He worked for food and found shelter in any abandoned building he could find, but he never trusted people. People had a way of letting you down or expecting more than you could give.

Isis was different. She made it a point to befriend him, even when he pushed her away. Their mutual background of military service had created a bridge she used to connect with him. Bob smiled and shook his head. Isis never took no for an answer and went out of her way to make sure he was fed every day.

“ Thank you, God, for bringing that crazy girl into my life,” Bob repeated the silent prayer before leaving his office. He had been saying the same one for over three years.

That connection had saved his life in more ways than he could count. Bob would not let her down, or the Reapers crew. Having a family came with great responsibilities, but he would never run away from that again. After years of mental illness and struggles, he found purpose again. He never expected it would be working for Death and a talking cat.

“Boss, here are the lattes,” Nicolas said, knocking on the door.

Bob was startled from his contemplations and smiled at the young man. Nicolas was short and stocky. Not as short as Shorty, who was barely five feet tall. But Nicolas was all muscle. The young man had curly, black hair and had the friendliest disposition Bob had seen in years. He reminded him a bit of Bartholomew when he was younger.

Nicolas moved down from Denver with his family to start a new life. A shifter from an Irish and Puerto Rican family, Nicolas was a blast to be around. The man had more energy than any of the other new recruits. They had forbidden him from ever drinking coffee on duty. Last time he did, he spoke so fast nobody could understand him. Not to mention he was bouncing off the walls, literally. It was interesting he was delivering Bob’s lattes.

“Did Pete see you with those?” Bob asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I told him they were for you,” Nicolas replied, glancing down at the floor. “He did say he would check with you to make sure all the cups were delivered. I’m not that bad on coffee.”

“Nicolas, you bounced so much you fell down the stairs.”

“I tripped,” Nicolas explained.

“Twice?”

“We have a lot of steps,” Nicolas added.

“On two separate occasions.” Bob tapped his pen and waited for further arguments.

“But the lattes are so good,” Nicolas shouted as he waved his hands in the air. “How many jobs have their own espresso makers in the employee’s break room? With homemade cookies. Scones. The scones are amazing. And the donuts. Did I mention the donuts?”

“Nicolas, I work here, remember?” Bob interrupted the young man's food review.

“Boss, please.” Nicolas dropped to one knee, making him disappear behind the desk. “I will work extra shifts if you just let me get lattes again!”

Bob leaned over his desk to watch the young man on his knees pleading. Bob shook his head. “Nicolas, you have problems.”

“What?” Nicolas looked up, with huge puppy eyes. “But.” Lips pouted.

“No,” Bob finally told him. “You need to report to our addiction center and talk to a counselor.”

“Boss.” Nicolas jumped to his feet. “I’m not on drugs. I swear.”

“Oh, I know that,” Bob agreed. “But you have a horrible caffeine addiction that is driving you nuts. Whenever the counselors give you clearance, you can resume with coffee again, as long as it’s caffeine-free. In the meantime, no.”

“Boss, life is not fair.”

“You didn’t taste either of these lattes?” Bob glanced suspiciously at both cups in front of him.

“I tried, but Mr. Pete had the sergeant escort me up the stairs,” Nicolas confessed.

“Why?”

“He was afraid I would trip again and burn myself.” Nicolas pouted. “I guess I will go back to work.”

“I mean it, Nicolas,” Bob informed him. “If you go through the evaluation with the counselors and they say you are clear, I will sponsor you to have coffee again, caffeine-free.”

“People are going to laugh at me for going to counseling for coffee.” Nicolas kicked his foot on the carpet.

“That’s actually the one reason nobody is ever going to laugh at you for,” Bob said with a stern voice. “Ninety-five percent of all the team is going to counseling for one thing or another. Yours is not the wildest one we have. Take care of yourself and don’t worry about what others think.”

“Really?” A small smile reached the corners of Nicolas’s face. “Then I can have coffee again?”

“In moderation and no caffeine,” Bob clarified.

“Thanks, boss.” Nicolas saluted and rushed out of the office.

Bob made a note on his desk calendar to check with the counselors regarding Nicolas. Coffee was not the worst thing Nicolas could be hooked on, but Bob wanted to make sure it didn’t get replaced with other things. He took a sip from one latte and savored the moment. Nicolas was right, they had the best caramel coffee macchiato. He had always been a black coffee kind of guy, and he still preferred his own blend. But Isis got him started on these stupid fancy coffees, and he bought several espresso machines for the building.

It’s technically Isis's fault Nicolas has developed a problem. Bob considered sharing his thoughts with the Reaper but decided against dying a quick death.

Instead, he took both cups and made his way towards the morgue. His office was on the top floor of the Station. After careful renovations by some incredible gnomes, the basement had been transformed to a state-of-the-art medical facility that doubled as their labs and morgue. The renovation included extra wide freezers to hold bodies. Bob was glad those were rarely used.

“Good afternoon, boss,” a couple of new recruits greeted him on his way down.

Bob waved but never stopped. He’d learned the hard way that stopping to engage meant hours of delay. Bob did not know how Pete and Shorty managed to talk to everyone and never got stuck. That was one thing Bob really should pay attention to.

At least the lower levels were empty. Bob pushed the large, industrial-size door to the morgue open without breaking his stride. The cold of the place made him stop. The medical staff had a habit of lowering the temperature even more than human hospitals, especially when fresh cases were in. Three out of the four operating tables were filled with bodies.

Doctor Angela was working on the farthest from the door. While Bob couldn’t see her face, covered by a shield, her black ponytail flopped around as she worked. As he reached her, he spotted the signs of her hard labor. The once white scrub was smeared with blood, and Bob prayed it was from more than one of her patients. Bob took a quick look at the current victim and decided not to focus on the corpse. The doctor had opened the body from chin to groin, exposing all internal organs.

“Doctor!” Bob shouted over the sound of the drill she was using.

“What?” Angela screamed, glancing up at him.

“Coffee?” Bob extended one cup towards her.

“Oh boss, you are a saint.” She dropped the drill on the table next to the body and took the cup with a dirty glove.

“Would you like to wash up before drinking that?”

Lifting the face shield with her empty hand, she raised the cup towards her face. Inspecting her bloody handprint on the cup, she shook her head.

“I’m sure nobody would try to steal my cup now.” She gave him a toothy grin.

“Good point.” Saluted Bob with his cup. “Salud.”

“Cheers,” Angela replied. “This is heavenly. Thank you so much.”

“My pleasure.” Bob leaned against the opposite table. “How long have you been working, Angie?”

“The usual,” she lied.

“Right.” Bob waited.

“It’s not my fault we are short staffed, and I’m having to pull double, maybe triple shifts.”

“Well, technically it is.” Bob picked imaginary lint from his vest and avoided eye contact.

“Seriously?”

“I’m not saying it was a bad thing.” Bob raised his hands in defense. “Happy couples are great.”

“How was I supposed to know they would actually get married and move to Fiji.” Angela waved her hands in the air.

Bob moved farther away from the doctor just in case her latte became a projectile in his direction.

“You hear about romance in the workplace all the time,” Angela continued with her rambling. “It doesn’t mean people just pack up and leave. Now I’m stuck as the only doctor on duty at the morgue.”

“I’m sorry about that,” Bob jumped in. “We are trying to hire, but nobody is interested in moving before the holidays.”

“Which one?”

“Halloween, fortunately,” Bob rushed to clarify.

“Thank the goddess.” Angela took a long drink from her cup. “I doubt I would make it to Christmas.”

Bob held back a smile. Angela was one of the most progressive witches he had met. Not only did she celebrate all the holidays for her faith, she also did the Christian ones. She was a bicultural child, as she told him once, and she did not discriminate against any of her upbringing.

“Bartholomew is doing his best,” Bob told her.

“Bart is a cutie, isn’t he?” Angela mused out loud.

“Isn’t he a little young for you?” Bob, like Isis, still saw the young Reaper as a young boy. Women fawning over him was still strange for Bob.

“Life expectancy for witches differs from humans,” Angela added quickly. “I can wait.”

Bob took a minute to inspect the witch. With her dark, silky hair, milky-white complexion, and dark-brown eyes, she could pass for Snow White. Nobody would ever guess she was way past forty. Bob was sure she was even older than he was, but Angela looked barely twenty.

Taking a deep breath, Bob reminded himself that many of the new staff had never met Bartholomew before he became a Reaper. The only version they knew was of the hot guy with the silver eyes. The fact he was still a kid was something only close friends knew.

“ But was he really a kid?” Bob found himself doing math in his head and realized Bartholomew would have turned eighteen this year if he hadn’t died. He wasn’t a kid, but officially an adult.

“Now that’s a scary thought,” Bob said to himself.

“What?”

“Sorry, just talking to myself.” Bob waved a hand in front of him. “Tell me what you found about the kid from the park.”

“Big-Bob! There you are!” Shorty shouted from the door.

Bob and Angela turned to face the newcomer. Shorty was Bob’s oldest friend, and one of the first members of the crew. A transient person as well, his transition to second in command to Bob had been almost miraculous. Gone was the scrawny man with twitchy eyes. A more confident and responsible version had developed, even if his fashion sense was still wild. He was wearing a white pin-stripe suit with a black fedora hat that made his chocolate complexion almost glow. Or maybe it was the weird lights of the morgue.

“Why do you look like you are trying out for a part in a musical with Sinatra?” Bob shook his head. At least the hat gave him a few inches.

“You are just jealous, my friend,” Shorty replied. “Besides, if the top boss can wear designer suits everywhere she goes, I can rock one as well.”

“And the hat?”

“I don’t know,” Angela jumped in. “I really like the hat.”

“Thank you, Angie,” replied Shorty. “I knew you were my favorite doc for a reason.”

Angela beamed back and raised her cup to Shorty.

“Why are you covered in blood?” At that moment, Shorty glanced at the body on the table and his face paled. Covering his mouth, he turned around. “You should warn a man there would be organs everywhere. I’m glad I missed lunch.”

“It’s the morgue, remember.” Angela pointed at the room. “What do you think I do here? Color my hair?”

“You have perfect hair,” Shorty informed her. “Nails would be more likely.”

“Thanks.” Angela stuck her tongue out at him and walked around the body.

“What do you need, Shorty?” Bob turned to his friend.

“I was planning to invite you to lunch, but we might need to wait on that.”

“Good,” Bob replied. “I still have work. Angie, can we get back to the body? What did you find out?”

“You will not like it. Besides being dead, he was in perfect health.”

“Explain, Angela.” Bob leaned forward to stare at the body.

“Perfectly healthy young men don’t just drop dead.” Shorty aimed his chin at the body.

“Who are you telling? I’m still waiting for the full lab results to identify everything we found in his stomach, but so far, according to my test, he died of a heart attack,” she explained. “Here is the problem. This boy doesn’t have an ounce of fat anywhere. This includes his muscles and arteries. There is nothing clogging anything.”

“Maybe he was injected with air,” Shorty jumped in.

“What?” Angela asked, but Bob only stared.

“You know, like in those criminal investigation shows.” Shorty walked closer to the duo while avoiding a glance at the corpse. “The victim gets killed by an unknown substance, then it turns out to be air. Ta-da! We have a syringe bandit. I solved the case.”

“You mean to tell me, a fully grown werewolf is going to sit around and watch as someone injects him with air, doesn’t call anyone for help, and lies down to die?” Angela stated.

“Just because you don’t have a better theory, doesn’t mean you need to be salty now.” Shorty folded his hands over his chest and rocked his head back and forth.

“Now, who is being salty?” Angela fired back.

“Enough, you two.” Bob moved in front of them. “I’m not willing to discount anything at this point, even if is wild. But don’t you go starting rumors of a syringe bandit with the troops.”

“I’m right,” said Shorty. “I can feel it.”

“Great.” Angela pursed her lips. “Now we are using intuition as investigation.”

“Hey, you use magic as part of your research and I don’t judge,” Shorty argued back.

“Ummmm.”

Bob looked around the morgue. “What was that?”

“TJ probably snoring,” answered Angela.

“TJ?” Shorty inspected the room as well. “Where is he?”

“Sleeping in one of the freezers.” Angela waved her hand at the far corner. “It’s been a couple of long days, so we’ve been taking turns napping here.”

“What?” Bob shouted.

Shorty slapped his head. “Now I know you have lost your mind.”

Bob rushed toward the freezer and opened the row in the middle until he found TJ. The young man was passed out, wrapped with a light blanket inside the bed.

“Hell no,” said Bob. “That’s it. You two are heading upstairs and sleeping.”

Bob pulled the bed out and woke up TJ with a gentle shake.

“Is it time to work?” TJ mumbled.

“No, child,” answered Bob, slowly dragging him out of the freezer. “It's time for you to go to bed.”

“But we have so much work to do,” whined Angela.

“If you are napping, inside the freezers, it is officially past time to work,” Bob informed her. “You two are heading to the dorms upstairs to bed. Where is Triplet-3? Please tell me he is not in one of the others?”

“Come on Doc,” Shorty moved behind the doctor. “Let’s take this blood bath off.”

“No, he left early this morning,” Angela told him with her head down. “Pete yelled at him for going over his time. TJ is technically part of the medical staff, and Pete doesn’t have jurisdiction on him.”

“Well, that’s going to change,” Shorty informed her, as he helped her to take the dirty gloves off.

“But we can’t leave all bodies on the table,” Angela protested.

“Don’t worry, Doctor. They will be in the morgue when you wake up,” Bob assured her. “Shorty and I will take care of them.”

“We will?” Shorty snapped his head in his direction.

Bob glared. “Of course, we will.”

“Shorty, please escort TJ and the Doctor to their new rooms for the day.”

“My pleasure.”

“Make sure to get back here when you are done,” Bob reminded him. “We need to put bodies away.”

Shorty struggled to get the taller man to move without tripping, while the doctor whined that she wasn’t sleepy. Bob ran his hand through his hair. He was going to have to pay more attention to the medical staff. They were burning themselves out, hoping to serve. He glanced around the room, wondering if he should inspect the rest of the freezers just to make sure nobody else was taking a siesta in there.