SCENT

June - The Breathless (4)

June is the worst month for people with irregular lifestyles.

When you pull off an all-nighter, it's already bright by the time you went to sleep; when you wake up at the break of dawn, your cloak says three-thirty in the morning. I didn't mind the latter part much, but it made me feel as though I lost the track of time. Morning, evening, night and day lost their meaning. Everything turned into a blur.

Last night, I returned home around one in the morning. I hit the bed maybe one hour later. By the time I managed to fall asleep, the first rays of sun were already creeping through the shutters. Thank you so much, new masked vigilante. You owed me four hours of sleep I desperately needed.

I was sitting by the kitchen table, drinking my morning coffee. I usually had it light – I didn't suffer the coffee aroma very well – but the first cup in the morning had to be a kick in the head. To many people, the morning coffee is a daily ritual. To me, it was a life necessity. I could go without breakfast, shower even toothbrush if I had to, but I absolutely had to have my cup of caffeine. Because-

The phone unleashed a stream of fast-paced blather, then claimed it was Skatman.

Quite so.

"Hello? Dan?"

"Morgan? Are you up?" My partner had the exact tone of voice I dreaded to hear.

"Just drinking my morning coffee." I braced for the worst.

"Then gulp it down fast and get in gear. Kowalski stuck again."

As I feared. No breakfast or shower for me today. Thank God I always started my day with a coffee. When Dan called at five in the morning, I had to be instantly awake.

♦ ♦ ♦

The hard-boiled fiction writers love this phrase: 'The smell of death'. 'Death has an unmistakable scent', they write with an almost mystical emphasis.

Load of bull.

In my short detective service I discovered that there were all kinds of death. Slow and swift, peaceful and violent, bloody and bloodless, painless and torturous, natural and unnatural. Death from gunshots, death from slash wounds, burning, drowning, asphyxiation. Death from traumatic shock or cardiac arrest, death from poison or disease – every combination was different, and each had its own, unique smell. There was nothing lofty about these scents, either. Death smelled just plain awful every time. Some were just worse than others.

This was one horrible death.

It seeped out of the open window on the first floor, spreading all over the narrow, two-lane street. It was among the worst things I'd ever smelled in my life. Charred flesh, ruptured blood vessels, muscles strained beyond capacity. Fractured bones, torn joints. Major failure of internal organs.

The small crowd of officers outside was all deathly pale. I couldn't blame them. I probably looked no better.

I had the advantage of speed and short distance, but Carlucci somehow had gotten to the scene before me. She nodded at me weakly. Judging by the green colour of her face, she had trouble holding her breakfast. If she ate one.

"Sun." She had trouble speaking, her was voice trembling.

"Jesus, Piper, what happened here?" I waved at her to get closer, away from the stench. She threw a glance toward the window over her shoulder.

"He – interrogated the vic," she finally said after a few deep breaths.

"Not with a popsicle." I frowned.

"No, not with a popsicle."

"Christ."

Carlucci threw a second glance towards the scene. "A homeless found the body about two hours ago. Scared the hell out of him. It's an abandoned building, still has running water and electricity, but the owner doesn't bother to guard it. A perfect place for a squat."