Chapter 33: Autopsies
The morgue was a dreary place, but I suppose that was to be expected: it was the home of the dead after all. This was not a place I'd like to be in, not even when I was dead. Wheels of gurneys squeaked across the floor as they were pushed by people clad in white. Faces frozen in time gazed at me from the steel tables on which they lay, ready to be cut open and examined. The place reeked heavily of bleach, a smell I had always associated with cleanliness; but not anymore. From today onwards death smelled like bleach, and death was anything but clean. No one looked the same after they died. Their eyes became glazed over with the ghosts of their past. Their faces became white and ashen. I quickly turned away before I could imagine the dead bodies being eaten up by rats and mites.

"Can I help you?" a man dressed in scrubs asked us. His hair was covered by a hairnet and a face mask hung limply from one of his ears. His gloved hands were covered in blood and his eyes looked sorrowful, like he had seen too much death during the course of his life.

"We were wondering if we could look at the autopsy report of Newton Wes?" Caspian asked, confidently like he knew he would find it here and would be given access to it.

"I'm sorry, we're not allowed to give you the reports unless you have documentation connecting you to the deceased," the doctor replied.

Caspian lifted up his shirt and revealed a small gun tucked away in his belt. My hands flew to my chest. Where did he get a gun from? And why was he threatening a doctor?

"Caspian," I breathed. e paid no heed to me. The poor doctor's body was frozen, but his head was looking everywhere, trying to determine what the best way out of this was.

"The report." Caspian clenched his jaw and pulled the gun out, aiming it at the doctor's head. Everyone stopped in their tracks when they saw the scene in front of them. Caspian couldn't have been more conspicuous.

The doctor, obviously having never been held at gunpoint before, wasn't sure what to do. He remained mute and closed his eyes in silent prayer.

"I'll use this if I have to." Caspian gestured towards the gun.

I swallowed nervously.

"Right this way." The doctor's fear and uncertainty was evident as he tried to navigate us through his co-workers. He led us to a room stacked high with shelves, each one marked clearly with a letter. The poor doctor was sweating from nerves. "Who was it you were looking for?"

"Newton Wes," Caspian clarified, lowering his gun. I breathed a sigh of relief.

The doctor scanned the shelves for a couple of minutes before turning back to us. "No Newton Wes," he told us.

"He's alive." I put a hand on Caspian's shoulder.

Caspian shook his head. "Victoria could have buried the body herself," he suggested. Why was he so set on getting evidence against Victoria? "What about Asher Cote?" Caspian asked.

The doctor repeated the procedure of looking along the shelves and handed Caspian a file. Caspian gave the file to me, for reading. I gingerly opened it, not sure what I was looking for.

"Could you please explain this to me?" I asked, politely. All I could see was a bunch of letters, numbers and graphs, that made zero sense.

The doctor shakily took the file back from me. "Caucasian male, six inched tall, brunette, blood type O positive..."

I cut him off. "O positive?" I asked, certain I had heard him wrong.

He nodded his head. That's impossible; Asher's blood type was B negative, not O positive. I was certain of this. "Is it possible that could be a mistake?" I enquired.

"Not likely," came the reply. "Would you like me to carry on?"

"Please." I was trying to make up for Caspian's rudeness, with politeness.

"Died of overdose..."

I cut him off again. "I think you've got the wrong file," I argued.

He showed me the name on the cover. "You must have swapped the files," I persisted.

"I don't think so," the doctor replied.

I looked to Caspian for help, and he immediately stepped in. "Asher Cote committed suicide," he clarified.

"Slit his wrist?" the doctor asked.

I nodded my head, wondering how he could possibly know that when he was holding the wrong file.

"According to this he was dead, before he slit his wrist," the doctor explained.

It took me a while to understand what the doctor was trying to tell me. How could he have slit his wrist if he was dead? And then it dawned on me: he didn't slit his wrist, someone else did. He was killed and then his wrist was slit by the murderer to make it seem like a suicide.

"I knew it," I thought out loud. "He didn't commit suicide, he was killed. Wait..." I paused in confusion. "Why didn't the Sheriff get this autopsy report?"

"Sheriff Matson gets all the reports, and he himself delivers them to the families of those departed."

Did my parents have this report? Wouldn't they have told me?

The door suddenly flew open. I came face to face with a gun. I gulped and took a step back before realising it was not just the one gun, it was a little less than ten; eight, to be exact. 

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