Uncaring
Microfiction
“Why does he do it? I don’t understand,” the detective says to the coroner. “To take that part of the human body, it’s morbid, is it a souvenir?”
“Why are you trying to find reason in what he takes? The guy is a god-damned lunatic, that’s all you have to know. The reason he takes parts is, kind of, a secondary concern, don’t you think?” responds the coroner. “You just need to catch him, not understand him, or his reasons.”
“How can I catch someone if I don’t understand them? To understand them is to know them, If I know them, then I can anticipate them and what they might do next. As of now, I have no idea what he is thinking: there’s no pattern to when he strikes or who he takes.”
The coroner looks up from the table, looks at the young detective, “Do me a favor; look at this table.”
The detective looks down at the table, at the mess that is strewn about on it. “What am I looking for?” he asks.
“You’re not looking for something, you are looking at something, at someone, or at least what’s left of someone. She died horrifically, and you can’t even muster up the barest amount of compassion. You’re no better than a robot.”
“I don’t have time for compassion — if I took the time to get emotional about every person who’s killed in this city, then I’d never get anything done.”
“I have never in my life met such a cold, uncaring person. You really surprise me,” the coroner says in disgust.
“Why?”
The coroner stops what he is doing to stare at the detective. “Why? You have the nerve to ask why?”
“This was your fucking wife,” he screams, and storms away.
The detective watches as the coroner throws his surgical gloves across the room and walks out the door. He looks back at the table.
A small smile touches the corners of his mouth.
