the alpha

Part 3

We're all done here," one of the mover's states, wiping his sweaty hands on his jeans as he nods at Tom, "You gonna lock up?"

A nod is all he offers as the man, a thin, wiry kid of perhaps 20 years or so, shrugs before turning around to walk out. He is the type that sees this as a job, Tom guesses, the kind of young person that might be a decent individual but is still prone to being a bit dense at times, and perhaps even a little dumb when he's hanging around his buddies, if he has any. It does not matter, and the thought is out of his mind the moment the younger man is out of the door and headed to the moving truck where all of the items lay nestled among the box-like structure with
one another, waiting to be transported to the next empty home where they will be used to create yet another illusion of warmth and elegance.

The yearning feeling comes again, but there is no added clarity this time either, only a strange feeling that Tom should pay attention to the feeling. He does not know why, there's no deep yearning inside of him for anyone, or anything.

But the sight of that table stirs his curious mind again, remembering the long look it was given, before.

Putting it out of his mind at the moment he looks down at the expensive time piece he's been wearing for the past year and a half. He had seen the gold and silver piece of craftsmanship beneath a pane of glass in a high-end jeweler's shop while making his way through one shop after another for no better reason than to see what was there. The piece came with the high price of a full commission, meaning that he had opted to get by on whatever had been left in his bank account after upgrading his lifestyle. He would made do, much as he does now, and everything has been worth it to date.

This sudden yearning for something, or someone, is unsettling, as he has never felt it before. It could be something that might pass, but a gnawing feeling that is not unpleasant, merely present, says otherwise. Inhaling through his nostrils he decides to take one final look through the home, telling himself that it is to make certain that everything is as it should be and that the
new owner will not be in for any big surprises that might queer the deal. He tells himself that, but he knows that there is another reason that he wants to make one final check around. The fact is
that Tom will not admit it to himself; he feels that he'll be seeing this place again at some point.

*​*​*

08:30 am

"Don't you guys ever sleep?" Randall wiped at his eyes with one hand as he stood close to the table over which the county M.E., a man that made Stanton look young, peered over the corpse that lay between them with a narrowed gaze.

"Much like horses, we can sleep standing up. For all you know, I am asleep right now detective."
The old man flicked his eyes up at Randall, along with a corner of his thin, pale lips.
"Look here," the old man said in the next second, pointing to a garish wound that was
still horrible to look at.

"This damage to the jugular looks like something, or someone, ripped at their throat the way you'd tear at a steak."

"Ugh, terrific," Randall said, not turning away.

The victim was a young female, twenty-four according to the driver's license that had been found on her, and she'd been attending Atlanta Metropolitan State College, a local community college that was just a short drive away.

"But these indents are odd. A tooth, I mean a real tooth, has a good deal of force coming behind it, so would a well-placed implant. But this added tearing leaves me to believe that
whatever was used to do this was either poorly attached or..."

"Or something else entirely?" Stanton asked, arching his eyebrows.

"Yeah," the examiner said, blowing out a breath as he shook his head, "The savaging of the flesh is not consistent with someone biting down and worrying the wound open with a shake of the head. It is almost like the victim just stood or laid there and took it."

Randall frowned as he looked closer, "The wound is pretty messy though," he stated, pointing at the jagged edges around the wound.

"Those are knife marks," the examiner said, raising his left index finger while pointing at the wound with his right ring finger. "I get it, the wound looks like it has been ripped at, like a dog or a wolf would. But it is clever, horrible as it is, since if you look at it straight on, it appears to be a mess, like it was amateur hour, or wild animals did it. But if you move things about..."

Randall grimaced as the old man moved the ragged bits of flesh around the wound, the slight noise of flesh being readjusted failing to turn his stomach, even though it still disgusted him. But his eyes opened as he and Stanton saw what the examiner was looking at. What had been a sodden, blood-soaked and ragged mess to pretty much everyone else became an obvious series of cuts as the doctor lined up the ragged tears in the skin, showing a series of deep cuts that were more than obvious.

"This is a clever killer, and that's trouble I'd imagine," the old man stated, "He, or she, took the time to slice and dice the victim to the point that it would look like a general mess when they decided to muck around with the wounds. The one that I wanted to show you down here, on her torso, just under her ribcage, is the same."

Randall moved aside as the old man came around the table, holding his bloody surgical gloves up in front of him as hovered over the site of the wound. The wound beneath the young woman's ribcage was even wider, as the report read that the victim's heart, along with chunks of several other organs, had been ripped from her body and set in nondescript iron kettle that had positioned to the left of her head where she had been found.

"In here," the old man said with a grunt, digging his gloved fingers into the flesh to expose the ribs beneath, "Take a look."

Randall rolled his eyes, he was not squeamish about blood, but there was something very unsettling about being able to look into another person's body in such a casual manner. Even with a dead body it felt like an intrusion that was not warranted, even if it was a part of the job.