Hades by Candice Fox

least decomposed,” said the pathologist, a lanky Asian man. “There are twenty bodies. We estimate that around half will have to be identified by dental records. These are the only ones with faces.”
    My stomach turned. Eden was staring coldly at the body of a man on the table next to us.
    “There’s a unifying cause of death, which makes things easier for you,” the pathologist said pleasantly, pointing his pen at my nose. “All these bodies were bled out. Each of them had a surgical wound that was not closed.”
    “A surgical wound?” Eden frowned. “Give me an example.”
    The pathologist pointed to the boy beside me.
    “He’s missing a heart.” He turned and pointed to another. “That one’s had her lungs removed. The young girl by the doorway, she’s lost both of her kidneys.”
    “Christ.” I shuddered. “Some sicko’s nicking body parts?”
    “This isn’t a sicko, not in the traditional sense. The person you’re looking for is a cold, calculated businessman.” The pathologist lifted a sheet from a body at the end of the row. I stared at the bloodless cavity in a young woman’s torso where some part of her had been removed. The pathologist pointed into her with the end of his pen, like an explorer following the edge of a map.
    “These wounds are clean and meticulously positioned and the organs have been removed with the utmost care in the manner prescribed for direct transplant. Each of the victims has sedatives in their system. He’s been doing this for some time. He’s trained—and he’s experienced.”
    Eden was chewing her thumbnail. She looked at the ceiling and let the air out of her lungs as though she was glad to have them.
    “An organ thief,” she whispered miserably. “This is a new one.”

7
    M artina Ducote had woken up plenty of times experiencing the strangely thrilling sensation of not knowing where she was. The moment before she opened her eyes was usually filled with the leftover giddiness of a night on the town and the dread of wondering who she was lying next to. This time was different. The moment before she opened her eyes was filled with pain and, as her body twisted to gauge its surroundings, she felt cold steel and rust, not the softness of an unfamiliar mattress.
    She opened her eyes.
    The drugs she had been slipped in the wine bar on Oxford Street had ruined her depth perception, so when she reached out to touch the bars around her she bashed them awkwardly with her knuckles. She was still wearing the little black party dress but her wrists were adorned with bruises like strange bracelets and her lip was split from what felt like a punch to the mouth. Her earrings were missing and so was her watch.
    She rolled onto her knees and rested against the door of the cage, trying to will away the sickness.
    It didn’t work. Martina retched and vomited on the cage floor beside her water bowl.
    “Help,” she rasped, the sound barely loud enough for her own ears. “Help.”
     
     
    The common need among all forms of police is food. You’ve got to keep your calorie intake up if you’re going to maintain the kind of reserved edginess required for an occupation constantly fraught with danger. For the homicide detectives it compensates for energy spent on anxiety about the case, puzzlement as events develop, the horrors of the crime scenes. Stress for the small stuff. Eden sat down in the conference room, placed her iced coffee within arm’s reach and tore open the wrapping around a bacon and egg roll she’d bought for breakfast. She took the switchblade from her belt and cut the roll in half, then licked the blade on either side. I peeled the top off my breakfast pie, perusing the autopsy photographs before me. Unlike Eden, I would regret my high-fat breakfast, even though I knew it was necessary. She didn’t look like anything other than protein shakes and rice crackers ever passed her lips. I wondered if she worked out. Her hands were veined and strong. A