Wayward Son

Chapter 5

Dean followed Ruthie's clicking heels down the narrow hall leading to the morgue. Whatever "CDC Special Liaison to the FBI" was, she looked the part in a white blouse, black blazer, and a black skirt that looked like it had been made just for her. She'd twisted her dark hair up in some sort of fancy knot on her head. She'd even added a slim pair of glasses. Shorten the skirt, cut the blouse lower, add a stack of books, and she'd be his fantasy sexy librarian. Dean didn't mind letting her take the lead—it meant he got to walk behind her.

Damn it. He had to stop thinking that way. Ruthie was off limits. He forced his eyes off her, and onto the beige linoleum.

She reached a set of double doors, and pulled one open. He took the door for her, then followed Sam inside. A short, round man in a white lab coat looked up from a laptop as they entered. A bushy brown mustache seemed to cover half his face.

"Nurse Trujillo?" the man asked. "Is that you?"

"It's me, Dr. Ziegler." Ruthie crossed the room and shook his hand. "It's good to see you again."

The man glanced at her badge. "CDC, hm? Moving up in the world, I see."

She gestured to Sam, then Dean. "This is Dr. Ulrich, and this is Agent Hetfield. They're here to see—"

"Mr. Reeves," the pathologist finished for her.

"Yes."

Dr. Ziegler eyed Dean. "FBI? Is this a criminal investigation?"

"Just a fact-finding investigation for now," Dean answered. "But we're not ruling anything out."

"Have you already performed the autopsy?" Sam asked.

Dr. Ziegler nodded.

"Cause of death?"

The man's brown eyes flashed beneath his overgrown brows. "Inexplicable. Which is why you're here, I suppose." He went to a cabinet and pulled out a box of surgical gloves, then offered them to Sam, Dean, and Ruthie.

She declined. "I'll wait in the hall for you gentlemen."

Dean gave her a nod. Dr. Ziegler went to a wall lined with big steel drawers, and grasped a handle. Ruthie's heels tapped faster on her way out the door as he pulled it open.

Dean had seen a lot of freaky things in his life. Plenty of bodies. But damn.

No one would have guessed this poor bastard had been twenty-eight years old. Grayish skin stretched taut, like dried out leather, over his gaunt face. The shape of his skull stood out: sunken temples, jutting cheekbones, hollow cheeks. His lips had shrunk, pulling back from his teeth in a sickening grimace. Dr. Ziegler pulled the white sheet down to Brandon's waist. Sharp shoulders and elbows protruded from broomstick arms. His collarbones, sternum, and each rib stood out, distinct beneath withered skin. He reminded Dean of pictures of starving people in Africa. Except for his stomach. The ones in the Africa photos were swollen. His was caved in. No wonder his wife had fainted.

This wasn't just another body, another case. This was nightmare fuel. Dean glanced back at the door, grateful Ruthie had left.

Dr. Ziegler was watching them, apparently curious to see the feds' reactions. Sam appeared to be examining the body, but he had covered his mouth with his hand. Dean tried to focus on the medical examiner's impressive 'stache, rather than the shriveled gray thing on the slab. "You said the cause of death was inexplicable. What can you tell us?" Dean asked. "Anything you do know?"

Ziegler bristled. "Of course. I consulted his medical records. He was the picture of health. Strong heart, clear lungs, low cholesterol. They tell me he worked here, although I don't really know any of the CNAs."