Morgue Drawer Four by Jutta Profijt

result of my efforts: it didn’t work. Still, I’d killed some time (funny way to word that, don’t you think?), and so now I didn’t have to wait so long for the return of my noble forensic pathologist/knight.

     
    At the start of the work day, Martin came into the basement and asked in his thoughts, Everything OK with you? And he then apologized that he had a ton of work to do and didn’t have time for me just now. I felt his relief when I said that wasn’t a problem, he shouldn’t give any thought to me, just get his important work done. He trotted out, and I after him. Of course I should have left him in peace, but I already had a totally boring night behind me, and I wanted some action! I firmly resolved not to put him in any embarrassing situations, and I followed him without making myself noticed. And that ended up working out really well.
    I’ve written hardly a positive word about Martin so far, and back at the moment when I started tailing him to escape my boredom I hadn’t really anticipated feeling the need to do so, either. But now, since I’ve not only brought Martin’s life to the brink of catastrophe but also put him right in the thick of things, I feel compelled to clear a few things up.
    I’m sure you’ve had the experience of seeing someone you’ve never met before and just knowing at a glance if they’re a cheerful or grumpy type. Martin is one of the cheerful ones. His face tells you right away that he likes to laugh, and the way his colleagues said hi to him on this morning showed me that people like him. A guy named Jochen came over to Martin’s desk and laid an old, handled-to-death city map onto the desk, and he said he’d brought it back for Martin from his trip out of town over the weekend. Martin picked up the map, unfolded it, studied it, and thanked Jochen effusively.
    “Where did you get it?” he asked.
    “At the flea market,” Jochen explained, his chest puffed out with pride.
    (Yes, we’re talking here about an old city map—a thing that shows streets and train lines and buildings and all that.)
    “It’s a true rarity,” Martin said enthusiastically.
    Jochen patted him on the shoulder again, assuring Martin that the pleasure was entirely his, and he accepted Martin’s repeated thanks with a grin. If I still had a mouth, then it’d have been gaping so wide open you could shove an entire XXL Burger Value Meal sideways into it. With fries. And dessert. But I pulled myself together; I didn’t want to irritate him, which was exactly why I had undertaken not to let him sense my presence, so I kept my trap shut. But it was hard, let me tell you.
    The day had nothing interesting to offer; Martin wrote reports—or, more accurately: he dictated them. I had never seen something like that before, so I stayed with him for quite a while watching. His computer has a program that recognizes speech. Because I’ve learned what that means since then, obviously, I can quickly explain it to you now: you speak into the microphone attached to your headset, which is also connected to the computer, and then the computer types what you say all by itself. Crazy, right? Imagine a typing pool in an office, like at a lawyer’s office or something. In the olden days the typists would all be putting their special finger skills to the test, but nowadays the women are all sitting there wearing headsets that ruin their hair, hands resting lazily in their laps, and they just mutter out their letters, memos, and reports, which the computers type. INSANE !
    Anyways, Martin was prattling out his endless reports, and the computer was diligently taking everything down. Impressive technology. Of course, a proper soccer match would’ve held my attention more, and longer, but no one seemed to be using a computer for anything even remotely interesting in this office building. No softcore porn on the Internet, no hot chats with anonymous representatives of large religious communities, and no gambling. Not