The embalming went well, though having to inject Mr. Lundy’s head on its own took more time because he had turned the pressure and rate of flow down so low. By the time he was ready to start the actual reconstruction, he had missed lunch and was probably going to miss dinner, too.
There was definitely going to be poop on the floor when he got home.
Tom wheeled over a small stool and sat down to begin. He had to pack the inside of Mr. Lundy’s head with putty and cotton to prevent leakage and fill the space, so he had a foundation to rebuild his skull.
He had most of the fragments and was able to glue them together, one piece at a time. He filled in the cracks with putty to reinforce the glue, and he cut pieces of reinforced cardboard to fit the empty spaces where pieces were missing. It was soothing, like working on a puzzle, and he was able to relax.
For a while.
Once he began to pull Mr. Lundy’s scalp back into place, his thoughts drifted back to Mr. Ross on the embalming table next to him.
Even if he was a criminal, no one deserved to die like that.
No more than poor Mr. Lundy had after taking his own life, Tom thought glumly. He couldn’t imagine what kind of pain Mr. Lundy must have been in to do something like this, and he had to set his needle down because his hand had started to shake.
Before Tom knew it, there were tears running down his face, and they wouldn’t stop. He hadn’t finished sewing up Mr. Lundy’s scalp, but he couldn’t see clearly enough to keep going. He quickly scooted away from the table and took off his gloves, gasping sharply as he started to sob.
What the fuck was wrong with him?
He couldn’t stop crying and quickly became overwhelmed with intense despair. There was a pain in his chest he had never felt before, and he felt lost. He didn’t know where all of this was coming from, and his hands were still trembling.
Tom had dealt with cases far worse than these two before, and he had no idea why he was so upset. He stripped off the rest of his gear and tried splashing water on his face, but it didn’t help. He was nauseated, his heart was pounding, and he kept waiting for it all to stop.
But it didn’t.
And there was no one else he could think of to call.
“Hey, Tom,” Cypress said, answering after only the second ring, his tone neutral but friendly.
“Cypress.” Tom did his best to hide how upset he was, slouching against the counter. It was such a relief to hear his voice.
“What’s wrong?” Cypress sounded worried. “Are you okay?”
“No, no, I’m really not,” Tom replied, laughing mirthlessly and sniffing back another wave of tears. “Something’s wrong. I can’t stop fucking crying, and I feel like I’m losing my mind. I didn’t know who else to call, I’m so sorry—”
“Hey, hey,” Cypress soothed. “How long have you been like this? When did it start?”
“Just now. I’ve been working late and going right to bed and today… I don’t know. I can’t stop, and I’m so sorry. I was such an asshole, and I know it’s not like eating peas—”
“Huh?”
“—And I never meant to hurt you. I want to be with you. Just you. Please. It was the screaming, okay? That’s what upset me at the party. This poor woman, this mom, she was screaming like that when I had to pick up her son. I’m so sorry. Fuck, look. If you’re a freak, then I’m one, too. Okay?”
“Tom,” Cypress snapped, his voice firm. “Take a deep breath. Right now.”
Tom sniffled and tried his best to, his breath shaking on the exhale.
“Take another.”
Tom did.
“Keep breathing for me. Find a spot on the wall to focus on and listen to my voice. Okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Yes, what?” Cypress demanded.
Oh, that stern tone made something in Tom jerk and forced his back to straighten, and he said, “Yes, sir.”
