Chapter Text
It had been months; she’d long since stopped expecting an answer.
When one came, then--late one Saturday night, when she could not sleep--the jolt to her heart wasn’t entirely pleasant. She almost hung up at the sound of the other end’s click; barely stopped herself. Waited just a beat too long, though, and was met with a voice. A voice; a tired, urgent “hello?”
Laurel swallowed thickly; wondered if she’d fallen asleep, after all, and if this was a dream. She could hear a drunk man ranting outside her window, though, and the faint ring of a siren, and the pounding of her head certainly felt real. Finally, she sat up, cross-legged, and held the phone more tightly to her ear. “Hi. Is…” She paused. Thought. “Where did you get this phone?”
No response; Laurel thought she heard shuffling papers in the background on the other end, and muffled voices speaking. Finally, the woman returned. “Ma’am, I’m with the NYPD. This phone was found at the scene of a crime,” she said. “Can I have your name, please?”
For a moment, then, everything stopped. Laurel tried to keep herself together--to slow the beating of her heart, get her brain back online, consider the myriad meanings of “crime”--but all she could do was open her mouth and stutter out an answer. “I...I know him,” she said. “The...this is...my friend’s phone. Can I…” She pulled her own phone away from her face for a moment; hoped the woman couldn’t hear her sob, or the sharp intake of air that followed. After a moment, she stilled herself; shut her eyes; carried on. “Was he...was there a man there? Did you...find him?”
God, she sounded like a child, but a cold part of her whispered that that was for the good. You sound real, it said. Keep going.
Sure enough, when the woman spoke again, her voice was softer; the urgency remained, but Laurel could tell she was trying to hide it. “What’s your friend’s name, hon?”
Shit. “...Jimmy,” Laurel said. “I...I don’t know his last name--it...wasn’t like that, but…” She paused; took what might have been a steadying breath, had it accomplished a damn thing. “Is he...is he alright?”
A long silence, then, like a punch to Laurel’s gut. When the woman spoke, her tone was professional; all business. “What does Jimmy look like, ma’am?” She asked. “Could you describe him for me?”
“He’s…” Laurel’s voice came out shaky. “He’s...tall, with a beard, brown hair, and…” Fuck. “He’s dead, isn’t he? He’s…”
Another long pause. “We did find a body,” the woman said. “Male. Caucasian. Brown hair.” More shuffling papers, then. “Six foot one. No tattoos, no identifying marks. No beard, but…”
“I’ll come,” Laurel said. “Where...where is he? I need to…” She tried and failed to conceal another sob. “I need to...see if it’s him. Can I…?”
“Where are you calling from, ma’am? I’m seeing a...Philadelphia area code. Is there anyone closer who could--”
Laurel felt herself shaking her head, the phone was sweaty against her face. Her hands were shaking; she wondered, again, when exactly she’d wake up. “No,” she said. “I...I can come. I’ll drive up, tonight. Is that...will you let me see him?”
The woman sighed. “It can wait until the morning,” she said. “The detectives working the case aren’t here, all the morgue assistants are--”
“I’ll be there in two hours,” Laurel said, and ended the call.
***
It wasn’t safe to drive, the way she was, she knew that, but anything else would have been too slow. The roads were quiet, anyway; she could have done it blind. A wild, angry part of her wished that she would. He’s dead, it said. He’s fucking dead, and you’re alone, fucking alone, after all. He’s--
She shook her head, again and again; roused herself, brought herself back down to earth. Get there, she told herself, whenever her mind began to drift. An hour in or so, the words came out loud. “Calm down. Stay awake. Stay awake, stay awake, stay awake. Get there, okay, and then…” She sobbed. Hit the wheel with the heel of her hand before correcting the swerve she’d caused. “Get there,” she muttered.
She kept on driving.
***
She hit redial just past the Holland tunnel, and a few rings later, the woman from earlier answered, sounding more exhausted than ever. “Ma’am, as I told you earlier, I--”
“I’m here,” Laurel said. Her free hand was steady by then on the wheel; she navigated the turns on autopilot, slowing as she pulled onto a surface road. “What’s the address?”
The woman sighed. “You might have to wait,” she said. “Could be an hour. Could be longer. Go get a coffee. I can call you when--”
“I don’t need coffee.” Laurel’s voice was hard; cold. A voice she wasn’t sure she’d had before law school, but one that came so naturally, now. This time, though, there was something raw beneath it; something hot and harsh and out of her control. “Tell me where he is.”
Another sigh. “520 First Avenue,” she said. “I’ll see if I can reach one of the detectives.”
Laurel took a deep breath; pulled over to the curb, and let it out as slowly as she could. “Thank you,” she said. “Really, I...thank you.”
“Mhm.” The woman’s grimace was practically audible. “You do stop for coffee, pick up an extra for whoever meets you. Might help. Might.”
Laurel did not respond; just hung up and entered the address into her GPS.
***
She arrived to find two men waiting. The older one was tall, fat and bleary-eyed, carrying an almost comically large thermos. The other was younger, maybe forty, and stood up straighter when he spotted her, eyes almost alarmingly bright for the hour. “You’re the woman who called in about the John Doe?” he asked. “Miss…”
“Mendoza,” Laurel said. “Allison. And...yeah, I...it might be my friend. His...his phone was there, at the...scene, and…”
The man nodded; stuck out his hand to shake. “Aaron Zhang,” he said. “I’m the detective working the case. Nice to meet you.”
The other man stepped forward next, and engulfed her hand in his. “Larry Zumwalt,” he said. “City coroner. Thank you for coming.”
His tone was dry, tired, utterly unremarkable, but something in his face set the tears crawling up Laurel’s throat once more; twisted her stomach and turned it to stone. Pity, she realized. Behind his eyes. She’d pushed everything down, again and again, along the way, but those eyes brought it surging back--where she was. What she was about to see. Might see, she reminded herself. Might, but it was no use, and she felt herself blinking faster; blinking away tears and sleep and the despair that had been building since that night in his cleared-out apartment.
It took her a moment to notice that the man’s hand had gone slack in hers; that he was pulling gently away, angling himself toward the door. She shook herself; withdrew her hand, crossed her arms, and nodded. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s...let’s do this.”
She followed them through the entranceway, down a long hallway and into a small, dim room, punctuated only by a window on one wall. The viewing booth, Laurel thought. Safe distance. The coroner proceeded through another door, and after a moment, the morgue itself came into view through the glass. A sheet-covered lump lay on a metal table, lit harshly from above, and Laurel felt bile rising in her throat. She wasn’t squeamish; never had been. With what she’d seen, growing up, she couldn’t afford to be. This, though…
Fuck.
She turned around; braced her arms across her body and tried to breathe evenly. Hell, tried to breath at all, through the rising panic in her chest. Tried to keep her wits, or what was left of them.
A hand on her shoulder, then, briefly, till she flinched and wheeled around to face the detective. “Take your time,” he said. “If you need a few minutes, we can--”
Laurel straightened up; squared her shoulders and forced herself to meet his eyes. “I’m ready,” she said. “Just...let’s just get it over with.”
The detective gestured through the window to the coroner, then, and under Laurel’s watchful eye, he pulled back the sheet.