The man calling him on the hotel rotary seemed hurried. His name was Tom.
There were hints of sediment the timbre, hanging by the vowels, as if he were congested, needing to dislodge something. Or perhaps, he’d just not spoken to any living creature as of yet this morning aside from Rob, which is customary of the coroner’s field, and the laboratories associated with them. They hardly speak to anybody alive, except amongst themselves, his partner once said. And since they conduct their meticulous work quietly with microscopes, and strange instruments made of German grade stainless steel, with even stranger names to them, when they finally do end up speaking, their voices always seem distorted by an insecure shock. As if they had either never heard themselves speak before, or had forgotten what the sound of their own voice was like.
It wasn’t her, the voice had said, ahem, clearing…
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