The Cold Road (Book 1)

Chapter Seven

James marched through white corridors, his hands pushed defensively in his pant pockets. There was no specific building that served solely as a morgue in Damascus; it was simply the basement of the local three-story hospital. The hospital was a squat building built onto the back of the fire station. It was a minute walk from the police station; following the exit signs to the back of the building into a small court that separated it from the fire station, it was then just a short walk into the hospital.

It was a building that James knew well, having memorised the halls and the different rooms for emergencies. Underneath his clothes, his body was riddled with pale scars, and his bones had been broken more times than he cared to remember. They were all a result of a childhood game. A boy's game invented to prove to the other that you were not weak. A pointless game in reality, but so important to two boys who felt the need to prove their worth.

As he passed the waiting room, he flashed his badge to the receptionist who nodded him through. The morgue was beyond the hospital itself and only a qualified doctor or an officer of the law was allowed in. There was nothing of interest in the halls, no decorations on the walls, and all the doors he passed were closed. James turned a sharp corner and unlocked a wooden door with a metal grill at eye height. He headed down the dark stairs on the other side. The air beyond the locked door was freezing cold, and a mixed smell of staleness and antiseptic assailed him.

The further down the hall he went the brighter the hall became, until finally he found the source of it. Light spilled out from underneath a steel metal door. He knocked loudly with his fist, aware of the sound of a buzz saw somewhere in the room. He imagined all sorts of images, and none of them were pretty. The saw turned off and James waited patiently for the owner to open the door.

There was a click from inside the room and the door swung open to reveal a short, dark skinned man dressed in a blue gown, tight white gloves and a matching mask on his face.

'Can I help you?' he mumbled through the mask.

'Yes, my name is James Holland; I'm an inspector with major crimes helping to investigate the Damascus Devil. I was wondering if I could ask you some questions about the body that was found yesterday morning and the previous victims.'

The doctor studied him for a minute, then the badge that James was holding out. 'Yes,' he said at last, turning and walking back into the room. 'I'm Doctor Frances Vitae.'

James followed behind; pausing to swing shut the large door. Immediately the room fell silent. Every breath he exhaled he could see in the air. The floor was made of concrete, old and worn. The walls were made of the same plaster as the rest of the building. Huge, metal lockers lined the back of the room. There was one other door in the room with a glass plate in the door. James glanced through as he passed; a gurney lay inside next to a trolley of surgical paraphernalia. In the main room stood another gurney. Underneath the large, blood stained cloth lay the shape of a body.

'Are you new in town?' he asked, stopping on the edge of the room and turning to face Doctor Vitae.

'Are you?' Vitae tallied, pulling off his gloves and mask. His accent was Indian, though slowly changing to the Virginian twang. 'I have been in town for the past two years and fifteen days. I have not seen you before in my many visits to the police station and from visiting personal.'

Smiling weakly, James stuffed his hands deeper into his pockets. The cold air was getting to him already. 'I grew up here, but moved away three years ago. I arrived back early this morning.'

'Ah.' Vitae nodded. 'You're here about the girl. So what do you want to know about the Damascus Devil? Though I must tell you first, normally I only speak with Inspector Franks concerning the case.'