Blood Legacy: The Story of Ryan Part 1

BLOOD.

LEGACY.

THE.STORY.

OF.RYAN.

by KERRI HAWKINS.

CHAPTER 1.

THE LAST BODY FELL TO THE GROUND WITH A THUD as the woman leaned down to turn the gas lever in the fireplace.

The woman stood upright, a lithe and graceful movement considering the severity of her injuries. She glanced around the room, counting a total of 18 bodies, their limbs in various states of contortion, their injuries all more devastating than her own.

She perused the damage in the sudden silence, catching sight of herself in the far mirror. She moved closer, examining the damage to her face with a pa.s.sive expression. Her hair was so matted with blood it was difficult to discern its true color. Her clothing was so bloodied it appeared a damp black in the dim lighting.

She turned from the mirror, disinterested. Her gaze again swept around the penthouse, searching for any signs of remaining life. The marble steps were stained with blood. The sprawled bodies were grotesquely positioned. The contorted limbs made no movement. Shards of gla.s.s impaled chests that no longer rose and fell.

The hiss of the gas seemed loud to her, although in reality it was barely discernible. She could hear the sounds of sirens far off in the distance. She moved to the sliding gla.s.s door, then on to the balcony. She stared downward at the black street 24 stories below. She could smell the gas now, seeping into the night air.

She re-entered the penthouse and glanced around, searching for her bag. She saw it on the far side of the room, clutched in the arms of a young man whose head had been removed, none too neatly. She retrieved the bag, showing little compa.s.sion for the recently deceased. She removed a small brick of what appeared to be white clay, then gently set it on the table in the center of the room.

The sirens were closer, and the woman returned to the balcony. The smell of gas was powerful now, nearly overwhelming. She removed a b.l.o.o.d.y but intact case from her shirt pocket. She snapped the case open and removed a small cigar that she lit with practiced ease. With a flick of her wrist, she sent the matchstick flying off the balcony, the flame flickering out as it fell. With startling visual acuity, she tracked the match until it hit the ground, 24 stories below.

The woman puffed on the cigar contentedly a moment, her demeanor in stark contrast to her grievous injuries and the b.l.o.o.d.y scene behind her. The sirens were only a block away. She removed the cigar from her mouth, gazing at the red tip thoughtfully. With a surprisingly supple move, she stepped up onto the railing of the balcony, balancing effortlessly on the slippery surface. With no regret or hesitation, she flicked the remainder of the cigar into the room behind her, then stepped off the railing into the darkness as the world behind her exploded.

CHAPTER 2.

DR. SUSAN RYERSON GAZED THROUGH THE MICROSCOPE, searching for the telltale signs of metastasizing in the biopsy. There were none, and she stepped back to make a notation of this in her records. She leaned forward to make another observation when the phone rang. She reached over, pressed the "speaker" b.u.t.ton, then returned to her microscope. She brushed her red hair out of her eyes, peering into the eyepiece.

"h.e.l.lo?" came the uncertain voice over the phone.

"Oh, h.e.l.lo," Susan said belatedly, realizing she hadn't even greeted the other person. Her distraction was evident to the person on the other end of the line.

"Hey doc, if you're busy..."

Susan stood upright, again brushing her red hair out of her blue eyes. "No, Mason, that's okay. What do you need?"

Mason was still hesitant. "I've got something you should see in the bas.e.m.e.nt, might help your resea-"

"Okay," Susan said, hurriedly cutting him off. She was uncomfortable discussing this with him over the phone. "I'll be down in a few moments."

Susan removed her lab coat, smoothing her stylish suit. She was small and slender, but carried herself with self-confidence. Although a mere 34 years old, Susan Ryerson was a well-renowned researcher and full medical doctor.

Renowned or not, Susan thought to herself, the scientific community would not look kindly on her use of human bodies unethically (and illegally) obtained from the county morgue. Susan attempted to rationalize the breach in ethics by telling herself the ends justified the means. She only used bodies that no one claimed and would be unceremoniously disposed of, anyway. The way she saw it, this was a final chance for these people to contribute something with their lives, even if it was only through their deaths.

Susan exited her private lab and used her security code to access the elevator. She stepped into the waiting elevator and leaned against the wall as the car dropped smoothly into the bas.e.m.e.nt. The facility she worked for was a contradiction of sorts. It possessed one of the finest trauma centers in the United States, yet doubled as the county morgue. It fostered some of the most advanced medical research in the world, yet it routinely resembled a war zone. The hospital lost a fortune to patients with no insurance, yet made a fortune through the research and development wing. Patents and contributions were the big moneymakers in this hospital, not patients.

Susan Ryerson possessed four such moneymaking patents. She had discovered a unique drug delivery system, a method of stabilizing glutamine in solution, and two anti-obesity drugs. She saw little of the monetary returns from her million-dollar patents since her research had been completed under contract with the hospital, but she lived comfortably and was given free reign in her research. It was the latter that gave her impetus to continue.

The doors to the elevator opened and the smell of formaldehyde struck Susan full force, causing her to wrinkle her nose. She moved down the dimly lit hallway into a brightly-lit office. It was empty. A scribbled note on the chalkboard said simply "IN AUTOPSY."

Susan retraced her steps down the hallway and pa.s.sed the elevator. She pushed through another set of double doors and the air was noticeably cooler. She lifted the latch on the heavy metal door to the meat locker.

"Meat locker" was not actually the appropriate name for this room. But in typical morgue humor, it was an apt description. Unlike the neatly aligned cubicles seen in film and on television, this room reflected a more accurate reality.

Hundreds of bodies were piled on gurneys and on shelves against the wall. Sometimes three deep, the bodies were enclosed in large, see-through plastic bags. Because of its dual role as hospital morgue and county morgue, most of the people here had died violent deaths, a fact evident by the twisted and contorted limbs pressed against the plastic. Gaping mouths were open in endless silent screams, or perhaps in endless silent snores.

Susan had the odd thought that even the recently dead looked nothing like the living. As she glanced around at the bodies, she thought how fine the line was between life and death. Death was the demon she chased in her research, yet no one had come up with an apt description of what exactly it was that separated these bodies from her.

Susan snorted quietly at her own mental ramblings. She could see herself at the next medical board meeting discussing her new definition of clinical death: "It's a lot like obscenity, gentlemen. I can't define it, but I know it when I see it."

The formaldehyde smell was stronger in here and Susan couldn't help but make the connection to her high school science course; these people in their ziploc bags reminded her of giant fetal pigs.

She moved further into the room. To the right were the "crispy critters," people who had burned to death and who would now literally break into pieces if touched. They had their own unique stench that not even the formaldehyde could completely disguise. They were not of much use to her.

To the left, against the wall, was a set of what appeared to be bookshelves, or perhaps mail cubicles. But upon closer inspection their true purpose was revealed. The soles of tiny little feet could be seen sticking out of the end of the cubicles. Tiny little feet with tiny little toes with tiny little tags on them. This was the only part of the morgue that bothered Susan. It didn't have a nickname; it was just where they kept the dead babies. She could not use any of the dead infants; it was one breach of ethics she could not force herself to commit.

She moved through another set of doors into a brightly-lit room. The air was warmer in here, and a little more putrid. The bodies had to warm up a little before they could cut on them.

A slender black man leaning over a corpse looked up. His face broke into a sunny smile. "Hey, it's my favorite doctor. You sounded kind of busy on the phone. You working on something good?"

Susan moved closer to see what he was doing. "No, not really. I'm more in a fact-gathering mode right now."

Mason set down his instrument and removed one b.l.o.o.d.y glove. "Oh, then I don't know if you'll be interested in what I have for you."

Susan glanced down at the body on the table, unwilling to leap immediately into their mutual indiscretion. "What are you working on?"

Mason picked up a clipboard. "Hit-and-run. Twenty year-old male. They're trying to match injuries to mechanism, that sort of thing."

Susan nodded. Mason was a recognized forensics expert as well as coroner. He replaced his b.l.o.o.d.y glove and pointed to another nearby gurney. "I think I've got another slasher victim. Thirty year-old female. Same type of injuries, same type of death. They need to put that guy away. It's not good when my business is booming."

Mason continued his casual conversation as he cut on the body in front of him. Susan watched with only mild interest, glancing around the room. This room always seemed to have a fungal quality to it, although it was spotless. Spotless, she thought, wrinkling her nose slightly. The place may have been sterile, but it would never be clean.

Mason stopped in the middle of what he was doing. "Hey, I'm sure you've seen more than a few of these. Let me show you what I've got so you can get back to your work. Come over here and take a look at this."

Mason was already moving across the room and Susan had to walk around the table to follow him. He pulled the sheet back from a gurney against the wall.

"How old do you think she is?"

Susan stared at the profile of a woman, an incredibly beautiful woman. Shoulder length golden hair surrounded perfect features. Long dark eyelashes rested against high cheekbones above a full, sensual mouth. It was the profile of a sleeping angel.

Susan moved closer and the illusion of sleep was immediately shattered. The right side of the woman's face was crushed inward, and dried blood was splattered down the right side of her body. The remnant of clothing that was left appeared black, but was actually encrusted with dried blood.

Susan took a step back so she could not see the damaged side of the face. She examined the woman's features and could see why Mason was in a quandary. The woman could be anywhere from twenty to forty.

"Who is she?"

Mason glanced down at the clipboard. "That's why I called you. She's a Jane Doe. Apparently was involved in one h.e.l.l of a fight. I'll be d.a.m.ned if I can determine her age, though."

Susan understood his indecision. The woman had an ageless quality about her; perhaps twenty to forty was too narrow a range.

"Take a look at this."

Mason pulled the sheets upward from the bottom of the gurney. Susan moved to look and let out a small gasp.

The woman's legs had numerous compound fractures with bone protruding in several places, most noticeably where the right femur had broken through the side of the thigh.

Susan looked closer, something did not seem quite right, beyond the obvious fact that the woman's bones should not be protruding from her body. She glanced up at the length of the torso.

Mason nodded, following her train of thought. "She's about six inches shorter than she should be. Her legs are telescoped." He glanced at the clipboard again. "She appears to have jumped from some unbelievable height. They thought she was involved in that terrorist bombing downtown, but they found her several blocks away. There was no evidence she was dragged or carried." He paused, looking down at the body, "And it's not likely she walked." He c.o.c.ked his head to one side, examining the damaged legs. "Whatever she jumped from, it looks like she landed on her feet."

Susan glanced at the length of the torso. "She was tall, then."

"I would guess around six feet. She's also a good 25 inches across the shoulders. Between that and the quality of muscle she carries, I would guess she had the body of a world cla.s.s athlete."

"Have you done any work on her yet?"

Mason shook his head. "No, she really doesn't have any priority. She's been here for some time now, case remains open, ruled as a homicide. But I was given instructions to go ahead with the autopsy, then dispose of the body. I've been keeping her in the icebox. Don't really know why," he said self-consciously, "I just felt like doing so."

The "icebox" was a neat row of refrigeration units in another room. It was a step above the meat locker, and closer to the television/film version of body containers. It was where they put bodies needing identification by next of kin. They sure as h.e.l.l didn't want the next of kin walking into the meat locker.

"Jane Does" were rarely put in the icebox, but strangely, Susan understood Mason's compulsion to do so. She felt an odd sadness as Mason pulled the sheet back over the woman's body.

"I thought maybe you could give her one more chance to make a difference, since they'll probably never find out who she was."

Susan felt suddenly grateful to Mason, that he had reframed her ethical struggle in such a way. She nodded thankfully to him. "Yes, I think I can use her. I'll make arrangements to have the body moved upstairs after hours."

Susan opened the door to her house, carefully eyeing the walkway behind her. She lived in a low-crime area and the walkway was well lit, but one could never be too careful at 5 o'clock in the morning. She had stayed at the lab far later than she realized.

She pulled the ta.s.seled cord to a lamp and soft light fell on beautiful antique furniture. She set her paperwork down on a smooth, mahogany desktop. The room, a study in luxurious grace, was also in meticulous order.

Mr. Earl, her gray, short-hair cat, leaped up onto the cushioned seat. She picked him up and scratched the back of his head. She set him back down and he trotted into the kitchen behind her, knowing he would be fed. Mr. Earl was one of two allowances of disorder in her very ordered and elegant world.

Susan boiled a cup of Earl Grey tea, her favorite, then settled in her chair near the bay window where she could watch the sunrise. Mr. Earl leaped up into the chair and settled in her lap next to the steaming cup of his namesake. She stroked the back of his neck as she sipped her tea.

For some reason her mind kept returning to the golden-haired woman in the morgue. Perhaps it was simply because her research that night had been mundane, but Susan found her thoughts returning to the dead woman with unusual frequency. Certainly the woman's injuries were notable, but Susan did not generally dwell on any of her research subjects, and technically the woman wasn't even her subject, yet.

Susan finished her tea and rinsed the cup out in the sink, setting it to dry in its rack. She let Mr. Earl out, then turned as she heard the sound of little padded feet across her wood floor. Her five year-old, Jason, stood in the doorway, his red hair tousled and his eyes still sleepy.

Susan held out her arms and he ran into them, his little padded feet slipping and sliding on the floor. She picked him up, hugging him tightly.

"Did you sleep well, munchkin?"

He tried to appear petulant, but his effort was comical. "No, I was waiting for you to come home."

"Now don't you act that way," said the large, genial woman in the doorway. She moved into the kitchen, patting Susan on the shoulder. "Your mommy works very hard."

Susan smiled at the older woman, grateful for her support. "I'm sorry, Neda. I should have called-"

Neda gently cut her off. "I know how you are when you work. I slept in the spare bedroom. And little bossy boy here," she said, affectionately ruffling Jason's tousled hair, "was asleep at 8 o'clock." She held out her arms for the boy, addressing Susan. "You're very tired. Why don't you go to bed and I'll get Jason breakfast and get him to school."

Susan hugged her son tightly, then gratefully handed him over to the woman. "You're a G.o.dsend, Neda. I'll set the alarm so I can pick him up."

CHAPTER 3.

SUSAN TOOK A FEW DAYS RESPITE FROM WORK to spend with Jason, then returned to the lab. It was one of the benefits of being a prime producer for the hospital; she could name her own hours.

She donned her lab coat, making a mental note to call Mason in a few hours and make arrangements to get the body. She hoped he still had it in the icebox. She settled down to review her notes.

Mason pulled his latex gloves from his fingers with a snap. He pulled hard on the fingers of the gloves, then released them. They shot across the room like a rubber band, bounced against the wall, then slid down the wall into the waste receptacle.

"Two points."

He meandered down the dimly lit hallway to his office. He turned on the small lamp on his desk, then killed the overhead flourescents.

"That's more like it. A little ambiance."

He stretched out on the worn couch next to his desk. A short nap wouldn't hurt anything; he didn't have any pressing cases right now and it had been slow the night before. He pulled a tattered pillow to his chest.

He was just beginning to relax and drift off to sleep when suddenly he was jerked rudely awake. Something was not quite right. He listened intently, but it wasn't really a sound that he was listening for.

Mason sat up. If it wasn't a sound he was listening for, then what the h.e.l.l was it? That didn't make any sense. He started to settle back in the couch, rearranging the pillow.

He sat back up. What the h.e.l.l was that smell?

Mason was so used to the odors a.s.sociated with the morgue he could no longer smell the formaldehyde. But that wasn't formaldehyde he was smelling now.