Irreparable Diagnosis: Chapter 2
Her toe tag read "Jane Doe," but her face read "Ai Minozawa." Barnes knew her from the methadone clinic Janet ran and Barnes volunteered his medical expertise. Ai was just another high-priced Japanese-American call-girl trying to kick a nasty heroin habit, a lifestyle, Barnes mused, that almost always ends up splayed naked upon a medical examiners table, filled with other peoples fluids, smelling either of a Superfund landfill or the Pacific Ocean, and in this case, the former. A dead prostitute is as surprising to a pathologist in L. A. as a car-crash victim, gang-banger, or coke-fueled runway model/overweight comedian. Why does Lana need me here? Barnes pondered.
He raised the corpse' closed eyelids, expecting bloating, bloodshot orbs. Yet something was wrong. Her eyes were a deep clear eyedrop-commercial blue. No cloudiness, no burst blood vessels. Barnes, scalpel in hand, moved the blade towards the left eye, intending to solve this little enigma. And then he heard the tink, felt the impasse of a dense surface. Barnes set the scalpel aside and peered into Ai's face: glass eyes.
Barnes recoiled, then took another look at the face and body. Something else seemed off. The smell. Underneath the rotten garbage, a hint of... furniture store? He grabbed the scalpel, hesitated, formulated his hypothesis, and sliced into her stomach. And as if he were slicing into an IKEA box, out from her bosom burst styrofoam packing peanuts.
His hypothesis was correct, yet he lingered incredulously over the discovery. Slowly, he reached his hand into the incision. No heart, no lungs, yet there was still a ribcage, crude and plastic, and an entire skeletal structure to boot. Plastic hip bone connected to the thigh bone, plastic thigh bone connected to the leg bone, plastic leg bone connected to the foot bone. Head, shoulders, knees, toes, every bone a replica. And still, this was her skin, as evidenced by the ink dragon sleeve snaking around her left arm and the phoenix tattooed on her mons pubis.
He flipped the cadaver over, packaging popcorn spilling onto the cold floor. Stitches, Barnes noticed, ran from the base of her spine up to her neck. He checked her scalp: a wig, yet a perfect copy of her bob-cut hairstyle, and the stitches continued to her scalp. Two more sets of incisions ran down each respective leg, buttock to heel.
Barnes marveled at the precision, the care, the pure skill this job must have required. This really was a mystery.
He raised the corpse' closed eyelids, expecting bloating, bloodshot orbs. Yet something was wrong. Her eyes were a deep clear eyedrop-commercial blue. No cloudiness, no burst blood vessels. Barnes, scalpel in hand, moved the blade towards the left eye, intending to solve this little enigma. And then he heard the tink, felt the impasse of a dense surface. Barnes set the scalpel aside and peered into Ai's face: glass eyes.
Barnes recoiled, then took another look at the face and body. Something else seemed off. The smell. Underneath the rotten garbage, a hint of... furniture store? He grabbed the scalpel, hesitated, formulated his hypothesis, and sliced into her stomach. And as if he were slicing into an IKEA box, out from her bosom burst styrofoam packing peanuts.
His hypothesis was correct, yet he lingered incredulously over the discovery. Slowly, he reached his hand into the incision. No heart, no lungs, yet there was still a ribcage, crude and plastic, and an entire skeletal structure to boot. Plastic hip bone connected to the thigh bone, plastic thigh bone connected to the leg bone, plastic leg bone connected to the foot bone. Head, shoulders, knees, toes, every bone a replica. And still, this was her skin, as evidenced by the ink dragon sleeve snaking around her left arm and the phoenix tattooed on her mons pubis.
He flipped the cadaver over, packaging popcorn spilling onto the cold floor. Stitches, Barnes noticed, ran from the base of her spine up to her neck. He checked her scalp: a wig, yet a perfect copy of her bob-cut hairstyle, and the stitches continued to her scalp. Two more sets of incisions ran down each respective leg, buttock to heel.
Barnes marveled at the precision, the care, the pure skill this job must have required. This really was a mystery.