“There is definitely something dead outside, but judging by the strong smell in here, there has to be someone in here as well.”
“We were told about something in the basement.” Will shifts on his heels. “They said they thought it was just the smell permeating the house from outside, but then they spotted the open fridge.”
“The fridge?” Leroux raises his eyebrows.
“Shall we?” Will steps aside to let them go in front of him.
Wren nods and follows Leroux down the basement stairway. The odor chokes them. It’s got a different layer than the smell upstairs or outside. This is thick enough to feel like wet sand as they push through it down the stairs.
As they turn the corner at the bottom, Wren doesn’t feel any familiarity here. She’s never been in this basement, but it is exactly how she pictured it. It’s clean, sterile, and organized.
Near the back of the basement, close to the wall, is a row of chairs. They are sturdy, with thick arms. They remind her of courthouse furniture. As Wren moves closer to them, she sees that they have been bolted to the floor, with a layer of cement keeping them in place. The arms are encircled with leather straps and solid chains, rusted, and coated with thick, red-brown blood. The seats of these chairs all have blood smeared and pooled on them, and more of it has dripped down their legs and onto the light-gray cement below.
“I’m guessing these weren’t for Bible study,” Leroux quips and crouches next to her, using a gloved hand to shake the leg of one chair, which doesn’t budge. “Make sure we get someone down here to take samples of this.”
The air is thick; Leroux uses the sleeve of his shirt to protect, almost smother, himself against the pungent stench of decaying flesh. Wren has moved on to the white freezer in the corner. The lid is open, and the plug has been tossed to the ground. The smell becomes fleshier. The layers of stink burst like grenades with each step closer. She hovers close to the freezer, willing herself to look. She isn’t scared of the dead. She’s afraid of what they have to say.
“Muller, what’s in there?” Leroux asks, still standing over by the chairs.
She sees her now. She’s young, her blond hair darkened with blood and various other bodily fluids that have escaped in this unhallowed resting place. Her red, lifeless eyes were once green or blue. But now they are cloudy and bloodshot. Her cheeks are swollen, and Wren can see where the blood poured from her eyes, nose, and mouth after some kind of traumatic injury.
“What did he do to you?” she asks out loud. She reaches her gloved hand out to touch her, but she stops herself.
“Well, at least we know where the smell is coming from.” Leroux appears next to her, gesturing for another officer to come take over. “Let’s go upstairs and maybe get some air for a second.”
Wren spins around to face him, breaking from her trance for a moment. “What? No. This is exactly why I came here. I’m the medical examiner. There are bodies to be processed.”
“Of course, Muller, but this is a lot. It’s okay if you just need to get some fresh air for a second. No one would fault you,” Leroux says and lightly bumps his shoulder into hers in a show of comfort.
“I’m okay. This is my job. I just need to go get my kit. I left it upstairs,” she replies sternly, and walks over to the stairs, sparing a glance at the chairs once again.
Her heart races in her chest, and the smell of rotting flesh and men’s cologne begins to mix into a sickening cocktail. Her head is woozy, but she shakes it off. She hears Leroux and Will follow close behind her and can hear their hushed conversation as they climb to the ground-floor kitchen.
“Don’t leave her side while you are up there,” Leroux says quietly to Will, almost too softly for Wren to hear.
“Of course,” Will answers gruffly.