It was a straight forward autopsy. The cause of death was obvious- strangulation. Blood-shot eyes were a giveaway. Almost on stalks, bulging from oxygen deprivation. Or terror.
What number was she? Five? Six? They were all so naive, so vulnerable, so tragic. Now she was lying naked on a stainless steel bench under the cold glare of spotlights, every last vestige of dignity stripped away.
And now she was his. There was satisfaction in that. And power. He hardened slightly at the thought.
He whispered: “Strange meeting you again like this.”
White coats have always been a shield against suspicion.
Written by Peter Larsen
Peter is a secondary teacher at Traralgon College in Victoria, Australia.