*Tap* *Tap* *Tap* *Tap*
Two footsteps resound in the shadowy corridor outside the morgue of the central hospital of Phoenix. The source of the footsteps, two men dressed formally, walk to the window aligned with the door where a man whose posture carries authority in its silent stability is standing straight, and calm, his hands behind his back. As the door of the room the two men just left closes shut behind them with a clacking sound, they stop not far from the man, as his gaze remains on the window, on the view beyond it.
There is a moment of silence, somewhat heavy in the dim atmosphere, before he speaks, initiating the conversation with a gravely voice full of the same entitled authority as his posture:
"What are the results?"
The body the doctor is working on inside the autopsy room seems more interesting than the two who have come to him with the smell of death found in morgues clinging to them, and they don't mind at all. The subtle deference in their posture unhidden, one of them, wearing a suit like the rest, opens the folder in his hand, but speaks without having to consult the contents that have just been printed.
"The cause of the death is not the bullets he took in the back. It is the collapse of his thoracic cavity from the car accident after leaving the house of the Lockdreams. However, he also has a ruptured aneurysm, and not just one, but multiple one, centered around the most external veins of the brain, and there has yet to be any explanation for that. So, in conclusion, something made his nervous system chaotic like a sonic bomb, leaving him disoriented and unable to guard his service weapon which has been used to fire at him. He managed to run away, and only took three bullets due to the shooter's lack of accuracy. He took his car, but in his disoriented state, his chaotic mind made him crash the car and die."
After a moment letting the silent breeze drift past and stir the cold current accompanying the silent lifelessness the place is home to, the man before the window comments, flatly, and somewhat mockingly:
"Quite the irony, isn't it?"
He looks as the forensic doctor puts back the skull that had been cut open to take out the content and observe the damage it suffered.
"Do we know what caused the damage like a sonic bomb?"
The one making the report shakes his head, and makes an addition to the previous information before he continues:
"No. A sonic bomb or a high frequency bomb. However, our people have checked the scene, again, just like months ago, and they found nothing that could have done that kind of damage. The theory for now is that he really suffered from the ruptured aneurysms, surviving by a miracle with only the most external blood vessels affected, and dying only after a minute or two."
The light coming through the window fails to illuminate the face looking inside, but it manages to show the eyebrows on that face crumpling into a frown for a moment, before they smoothen, and return to their place, to the earlier indifference.
*Snap!* *Snap!*
The doctor inside finishes closing the scalp, then takes off his bloodied gloves and throws them into the metallic bin. After covering the stitched back body with a white cloth and hiding the uglily bruised and collapsed chest, he nods to the one outside the window, and walks to a door to the side.
But death has never been beautiful, at most only peaceful sometimes, so the scene does make the authoritative middle-aged man react. Now, only half a dozen tables, more than half of them carrying dead weight, remain, silent, unmoving, and coldly oppressive, like the weight on them will suddenly move and sit up to startle the white coat left hanging to accompany them.
The man gives the body that has brought him to the shadowy floor of the big hospital one last look, and turns to walk away.
"What about the Lockdream girls?"
The two men with him follow behind, and the second one replies:
"Both wounded and now at the second hospital, receiving treatment. According to the younger one, who only has a bullet wound on the leg, they have been tortured for some drugs or some research results of their parents they know nothing about. I don't know why he returned to recklessly investigate after the matter has come to an end with the death of the Lockdreams, past and present generation. He didn't report to me."
The frown came back on the indifferent face full of silent authority.
"He–"
"However, he has never been overzealous. Maybe he noticed something."
The interruption makes the authoritative man glance back without a word, before he continues when the one who interrupted him lowers his head:
"He has been reckless. Keep an eye on things but without any tight surveillance. Only use spare resources, and find a way to compensate the girls for the terrorist the country has failed to protect them against. Remember to let the media forget about everything by the end of the day."
"Yes, sir."
"Let's go."
By then, the group has left the hospital to step into the underground parking lot. A dark sedan was already waiting, and the driver opens the door to the backseat for the man in front to go inside.
The man holding the forensic report looks at the other man beside him, and chastises:
"Sir is right. He should have reported before taking further action after the case has been closed. Review his activities in the last period, and try to find what has bugged him to induce him in action."
"I will. And I will have periodic reports written even for informal actions. This will not happen again."
No matter the truth or the weight of that promise, it has to be made, and it gets a nod.
"Hm. Good."
With a pat on the shoulder, the man holding the folder walks to the other front of the car to get in and sit beside the driver. The latter shifts gears, moves with the smoothness from experience, and turns around to drive out of the lot.
Light shines on the vehicle, making it gleam, and illuminating the governmental license plate at the back, before it disappears without any wave, as if the car has never been there.