Shadows of the Night

II.

Azeil

THE SHARP ringing of phones accosted Azeil's eardrums, puncturing the chatter filling the police station as one phone call ended and another one started. Azeil's dark brows furrowed, his silvery gaze raking the room with an air of calm to rival the activity in the building and the nervous energy in his chest. Tucking his key card into the front pocket of his jeans, he manoeuvred his way around the desks and through a pair of swinging doors to the back of the room, glancing over his shoulder to ensure no one recognised him. The bustling life of the central offices quieted as the doors swung shut and his footsteps echoed down the empty corridor, passing conference and interrogation rooms before he rounded a corner and continued down the next, swiping through a locking mechanism slot.

As Azeil pressed his palm flush against the metal door, the morbid thought that he spent more time around the dead than the living flitted through his head, as he entered the morgue. White fluorescent lights bathed the room in a way he always found unsettling. The ghostly yet clinical lighting refracted off the silver surfaces of the evenly spaced mortuary tables in the centre of the room as his footsteps echoed off the concrete floor.

Donovan Carter leant upon a central mortuary table. His slight beach wave curls cut to the nape of his neck, the black ink of his sleeve tattoo peeking out from the cuffs of his forensics jacket, black jean-clad legs crossed over boot-clad feet.

"I see you're busy as always, Donovan," Azeil said, gesturing at the emptiness.

A wide grin spread across Donovan's youthfully square face; the lightness of his blue-grey eyes accentuated beneath the overhead bulbs. He shrugged his broad shoulders, pushing off the table and adjusting his cinerea shirt. "There's nothing quite like being the living dead amid ... the dead," he said.

Azeil cocked his head, eyebrows raising as his lips pursed with uncertain amusement, "That's a bit ... grotesque. Even for you."

"For me? Don't act like you don't think the same thing whenever you walk through that door," Donovan pointed out, a knowing look on his face.

He chose not to answer Donovan, directing his gaze to the mortuary chambers spanning the back wall and the many cabinets, some left open and empty, whilst others remained latched closed, labelled with whoever laid within. Azeil knew from his connections within Celacali and the officials of the city that whatever bodies occupied the police morgue were part of an investigation and, despite how many bodies he'd seen since starting his detective career thirteen years ago, he'd never gotten used to seeing his victim's bodies for the first time. So, whenever he was hired to work on their case and received the briefing file, it was difficult.

He would never forget the cries of agony and desperate pleas, or the tight press of fingertips across his forearms as mothers clutched at his shirts whilst their husbands stood unmoving and disbelieving, gazes locked upon him with their newfound reality. Those pain-filled moments blistered his insides, festering into the flesh beneath his skin until he obtained the unanswered clues left to rot and he had enough evidence to lock the guilty behind bars-never to see the light of day again.

Donovan's gaze weighed heavily on his face as Azeil cleared his throat and looked at the twenty-eight-year-old, his tone implying the jokes were over.

"What do we have, Carter?"

"You already know the basics from the files I sent you; two women, murdered in North Celacali," Donovan explained, straightening and walking towards the mortuary chambers. His fingers brushed the solid handle as he turned to peer over his shoulder, argentine irises appraising. "I hope you're not squeamish."

Azeil's eyebrows furrowed, lips parting as he deadpanned the younger man. Ushering him to open the cabinet with a curt wave of his hand, he approached the silver-doored mortuary fridge as he spoke. "Who do we have?"