Sangre Extraño

         I pushed open the glass doors of the police station. The night was young, and the office never slept. Officers were seated behind their respective desks, some intently going over paperwork or writing reports due sometime within the past few days, while some were talking on the phone. I couldn’t begin to count the coffee mugs strewn about the place. A line of criminals sat in uncomfortable orange chairs, waiting for whatever the investigating officers and lawyers had for them. Most of the men and women sitting there, fiddling with their handcuffs, didn’t look comfortable; my guess is that this was their first time in. I recognized a few, though; a couple of the men had propositioned me right before their boss had blown my latest partner’s eye out with a .357 Magnum. Ah, justice.
          “Hey, Spinetti! Great job tying up that last case. Sorry about your partner, though. He was one of the best.” A man carrying a small stack of file folders came out from between two rows of desks. I smiled and waved; I had no idea who the man was, but apparently he knew me – and apparently he knew my partner as well. His curly brown hair and grey eyes reminded me of Derby, my latest partner. His white button-up shirt and black slacks didn’t help. I could feel my eyes begin to become glassy, but my smile never faltered.
          “Thanks; have fun with that paperwork,” my eyes scanned his body for a visible badge, “Lieutenant.” He winked, and continued on his way. What could I do? I couldn’t help it if his badge was hooked to his back pocket. I made my way through the crowded work area to the back. The blinds were down in the windows, but a little maneuvering could reveal what was going on inside. I peered through the slats, and found Captain Mark Gregory pacing behind his desk, excited about something. As always, he was wearing a rumpled button-up with mismatched tie and wrinkled slacks. Without knocking, I walked in.
          “Spinetti, I’m transferring you to Covert Ops.” The news made my jaw drop. I sat down hard on one of the chairs in front of the desk. It had been a good night to wear jeans; the way I ended up sitting was nothing short of skirt-incompatible. My Saint Christopher medallion felt cold against my skin.
          “What?” I asked, my voice cracking. “Covert Operations? Mark, why?” My fists slammed against the smooth wood of the Captain’s desk so hard that droplets of black coffee nearly splashed out of his “World’s Number One Dad” mug. I had been with the Force for nearly five years, working my way up from a grunt to the lead homicide detective. I was right where I had always dreamed of being; I loved my job, and I was good at it. There wasn’t a detective in the state who had put away more bad guys in their careers than I had put away in the last three years, and he knew it. “You need me on Homicide, Mark. You know that’s where I am supposed to be; you put me there yourself. Why change now? Is it because of what happened to Derby? What the hell, Mark?”
          “It’s because you’re good, Spinetti, you’re damn good. We need someone good on the inside.” He seemed not to notice my outburst; if he had, my lashing out had no effect on his decision. His rumpled blue shirt and purple tie never failed to amuse me until now. How could he do this? There were still unsolved cases sitting on my desk just waiting to be cracked.
          “Inside of what, exactly, Captain Gregory?” He looked at me, staring with curious blue eyes. I never used his title; my years on the force said we had become personal acquaintances and it wasn’t a requirement anymore. This decision wasn’t personal; it was purely professional. Unfortunately, I couldn’t determine at that particular moment whether or not that disappointed me.
          “The Sangre Extraño, of course.” I nearly fell out of my chair.

***

          “What?!” Marla screeched. “The Sangre Extraño? You’ve got to be joking, Vera.” I laughed and took another sip of my Martini. I always enjoyed my talks with Marla Caesero. She was a small, sturdy Italian lady standing all of five-foot three with silver hair and an accent that said the majority of her years were spent in Boston. She had been my landlady and my best friend ever since I joined the Force.
          “No joke, Marla. The Sangre fucking – please excuse my French – Extraño.” I watched her eyes dart back and forth between my own, full of shock and something vaguely reminiscent of fear. “Oh, don’t worry,” I offered, sitting my drink on the small glass patio table. “It shouldn’t be a big deal. I’m guessing about six months on the inside as an informant, then a capture, debriefing, trial and then it’s back to knocking on the doors of every mob boss in the state.”
          “You don’t know what you’re doing yet?” she asked, placing her wrinkled hand over mine. Marla reminded me so much of my grandmother. Her little track suit and cropped hair were the only differences. If I shut my eyes, Marla’s touch – her voice, her entire demeanor – would have almost gotten me to believe that Gran was still around. My mind flashed back to the time I was a child, sitting on the floor in Gran’s bedroom watching her put a brush through her long hair. The lamp on the night stand near her bed cast such an illumination over her form that, with her hair flowing down her back in waves, she looked as if she were burning with white fire. Gran was so beautiful in her years; sometimes I forgot she was seventy years older than I was.
          “Vera?” Marla’s voice invaded my memory. “Vera, honey, you left me for a minute, are you alright? Your eyes got all glazed over and stuff.” Her frank manner made me chuckle.
          “Yeah, I’m alright, sorry. You just reminded me of someone for a minute, that’s all.”
          “Well if I remind you of someone that makes you look like that every time you think of them, I don’t know whether to be flattered or not.”
          “It’s no big deal, really, Marla. I don’t know how I looked, but it wasn’t meant to be offensive.” I smiled, my mind still winding itself around the fact that Mark hadn’t told me what I would be doing, exactly, before I took my leave of his company. That was highly unusual. Of course, my partner and I breaking up a drug ring only to watch said partner get murdered was unusual, too. Why should things suddenly become normal? Before I wandered off too far, I answered Marla’s question.
          “And no, I really don’t know what I’ll be doing yet.”
          “That’s pretty weird, isn’t it? I mean, as far as weird and police work go.”
          “Yeah, it is. I was just thinking about that. Mark never usually keeps me in the dark about things like that.”
          “Then again –,” Marla started, picking up a cucumber sandwich.
          “Then again,” I finished, “I don’t normally walk out of his office mid-conversation, either. That could be a big part of why I am almost completely clueless.” Marla nodded, taking a bite of her sandwich. My cell phone began to ring, making both of us jump. I was tempted to listen to the popular law enforcement television show theme song, but decided against it.
          “Spinetti,” I answered. Mark’s voice came through.
          “We need to talk.”
          “Speak of the devil,” I muttered, holding one finger up to Marla. “I’ll be right back,” I whispered. She nodded, taking another sip of her Bloody Mary. Yep, we were a really classy pair.
          “Mark, hi,” I said, shutting the patio door. “Sorry for walking out on you last night.”
          “No time for apologies, Vera,” he responded, his voice short. “We’ve got an issue down here at the morgue I think you should take a look at. Pronto.”
          “Any preface?” I asked.
          “Just get here.” Click. Well, he always did have that knack for being direct. I strode back outside.
          “Marla,” I started. “Mark called; he needs me downtown. As always, you can let yourself out whenever you want. I don’t know what time I’ll be back.”
          “Have a good time, dear,” she replied, engrossed in this week’s newspaper puzzle. “No need to wake me up when you get home.” She winked, and went back to her paper. I laughed. She really did remind me of Gran.

***

          “Detective Spinetti to see Captain Gregory and the mortician on duty.” From behind a large glass panel, the male attendant glanced at my badge and buzzed the large grey door before me. I reached for the handle.
          “Detective,” the attendant said through the speaker. I turned, my eyes following his pointed fingers. A pair of surgical gloves and a face mask sat in the drawer beside him. “I’d take these, if I were you.” My brow furrowed slightly and I opened the container.
          “Thanks, dude.” I pulled the gloves on over my hands before the attendant buzzed me through again. With the mask hung loosely around my neck, I walked through. Why did Mark want me here in the middle of the afternoon? I strode down the hall, listening to the soft click of my boots on the concrete floor. To my left and right were rooms with examiners and dead bodies, the remains of people with families and pets and lives. One of the windows caught my eye – a maroon jacket that looked all too familiar was thrown across a table next to a set of keys, a wallet, and several pieces of jewelry. They should be putting all of that into a box or paper bag soon, labeling it with the last name of the deceased; finalizing the passing, if it needed anything more than an autopsy anyway. I crept toward the room. Why, I don’t know. It’s not like I wasn’t the only person in the hall. I peered through the glass. An examiner was moving around inside, clothed in that sea foam green that one usually expects obstetricians to wear. An interesting analogy, that: wearing the garb of someone who brings life into the world when dealing with the dead. The examiner stepped toward the far side of the room to make several notes on a scratch pad, leaving me and anyone else walking by with a full-frontal view of the carnage that was once a living person. It took me all of three seconds to realize that the maroon jacket did not belong to anyone I knew – and it bothered me slightly to think that I wasn’t altogether sorry. A door opened down the hall, and I took that as my cue to continue.
          “Vera, glad you could make it with such haste.” Doctor Jennifer Charisma welcomed me into the examining room. She and I had a very professional relationship; Doctor Charisma had worked with my division on more than a few cases, serving as the on-scene medical examiner as well as offering professional opinions for other cases when needed. I did not know her outside of the courtroom or either of our offices, but she seemed nice enough. Like the other examiner, she wore pale green scrubs and a paper surgical mask. Her short brown hair was tied back under a cap, contributing to that obstetrician-type feel. Why was I equating a mortician with a baby-delivering miracle worker?
          “Oh, you know me,” I replied, taking off my jacket. “I’m just a humble civil servant, at the beck and call of the people.” Her green eyes watched me like a cat watches a mouse. Weird. “Where’s Mark?”
          “Captain Gregory? He went –,” she started. Her surgical mask no longer covered her mouth and nose. She had a wide mouth with full, pink lips and a petite nose. I would venture to say that she was rather attractive, in that platonic, I-could-be-a-model-but-I-decided-to-work-with-dead-people sort of way.
          “To go get coffee so he didn’t fall asleep before you got here,” Mark finished, walking into the room. For once his clothes actually matched. The door shut softly behind him, but the breeze was apparently enough to make him jump. The foam cup in his hand sloshed over with black coffee. As if he would venture to try that little gift called cream; no, that wouldn’t be Mark. He was definitely a black coffee kind of guy. I wondered what made him spill it all over his hand. Could whatever I was here for be that bad?
          “Sorry, Mark – I couldn’t get Scotty to beam me up so I could avoid the worst traffic in the tri-state area. I think he was taking his lunch break.” A pathetic joke on my part, but you can’t blame a girl for trying. Mark looked at me and shook his head. So I was a little off today… big deal.
          “Cute, Spinetti. Real cute.” I shrugged, turning my attention to Doctor Jenny.
          “So what was I torn away from my afternoon activities for, Doc? What’s this ‘something you think I should take a look at’?”
          “Captain Gregory, if you would be so kind?” Doctor Jenny reset her mask and moved toward the light poised above the examination table. I glanced at Mark and put my mask on, too. If they’re calling me in post-mortem and the Captain’s this jumpy, what I was about to see couldn’t be any kind of good. Doctor Jenny motioned me over, and I stood at the foot of the table. She reached for the lamp, turning it on. Fluorescent white light exploded over the sheet, making it appear to glow. Mark pulled a pair of surgical gloves out of his jacket pocket and put them on. It was go time, I guess. I took a deep breath as one of them removed the sheet.
         My eyes worked their way up from the parts closest to me. I always stood at the end of the table, if I could help it. Not that I’m squeamish, but I have found that standing there allows me to take in all of the display before my brain figures out that everything I’m seeing are parts of what used to be a person. I hate looking at faces first when it comes to the dead; it seems so impersonal, like I’m gawking at some freak show. I released the breath I’d taken, letting my eyes do their thing.
         Feet were closest to me now, which I appreciated. All of the body’s toes were accounted for; from the size and shape of the feet themselves, I would say without a doubt that I was staring at a female. Her delicate toenails had recently been painted a deep crimson and her skin was smooth; the color of fresh cream. It would have seemed familiar if most dead white flesh had not looked the same already.
          “What do you think, Detective?” Doctor Charisma asked, watching me. I held my hand up, as if to silence her. I had yet to finish my survey. I could feel her gaze creeping along my skin like spiders. Something wasn’t quite right. The seconds passed like hours. Yeah, something was definitely not quite right.
         My gaze reached the face and my heart stopped. I understood why the Captain was shaking, and I knew why I was called. I knew why the doctor interrupted me. The woman on the table looked just like me. I blinked a couple of times and looked at Doctor Charisma.
          “That’s my sister,” I whispered. “What is my sister doing on this table?” My eyes moved between the Captain and the mortician. “Mark, what do you know that I’m too freaked to figure out right now?”
          “Unfortunately, Vera, what I know is that you will be taking her place among the Sangre.”
          “What a coincidence,” I muttered, still trying to put together the fact that my twin sister was dead in a morgue and that I knew I had recognized those feet.
          “Don’t take this the wrong way, Spinetti, but that’s just what I was thinking. Doctor, if you’ll excuse us?” Mark stepped toward me and led me out into the hallway. Passing by was a mortician’s assistant pushing a cart of sealed containers. Parts of me didn’t even want to guess at what was in them. A brief nod and the assistant went on his way. Captain Gregory leaned up against the wall and took a sip of his coffee. “So here’s the thing, Spinetti: We were in the process of getting your sister out of the Sangre before she died.”
          “She was an informant?” I didn’t even know she was in town anymore. Julie and I had not spoken for years, thanks to our deadbeat father.
          “In a sense, yes. Long story short, she came to us because she had seen too much. Too many bad things had happened to her, blah blah –,” I cut him off. Why didn’t she tell me she was still here? Why didn’t she come to me and let me know she was in trouble? How could I not have known she was still around? I’m a detective, for Pete’s sake. It never even occurred to me to try to find her.
         “No offense intended, Captain, but could you stand to be a little more respectful? She was my sister, after all.” And even though we haven’t spoken since we were teenagers, it goes without saying that she still deserves to be treated as such.